My love looks like a girl to-night,
But she is old.
The plaits that lie along her pillow
Are not gold,
But threaded with filigree silver,
And uncanny cold.
She looks like a young maiden, since her brow
Is smooth and fair,
Her cheeks are very smooth, her eyes are closed.
She sleeps a rare
Still winsome sleep, so still, and so composed.
Nay, but she sleeps like a bride, and dreams her dreams
Of perfect things.
She lies at last, the darling, in the shape of her dream,
And her dead mouth sings
By its shape, like the thrushes in clear evenings.
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Comments1Just came across this really interesting poem by D.H. Lawrence. I gotta say, the way he describes his love, "threaded with filigree silver, and uncanny cold," really paints a vivid picture. What do you guys think he means by her "dead mouth sings"?
Does this sentence refer to the girl sleeping so deeply yet so vividly and charmingly？ Death can be an image, which may be related to the aesthetic of an era. What's your idea?